


That Which We Call An Orphan

by pocketsizedquasar



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, mostly angst tho, religious stuff?, trans ishmael let's go, yeah that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketsizedquasar/pseuds/pocketsizedquasar
Summary: A small story behind Ishmael's name.





	That Which We Call An Orphan

**Author's Note:**

> Going off my two personal favorite interpretations of how Ishmael got his name, one being it was a name he took because of the trauma of the book's events, and the other being my personal headcanon that he's trans, and the opening line is telling us to use his chosen name. (what can i say, i love projecting onto characters.)

He wasn’t _ always _ called Ishmael. 

The name that was given to him didn’t fit at all—it was too long and too clunky and it wasn’t even meant for him, really, but for the girl his mother thought he was. So he shortened it, amputated those superfluous syllables and refused to respond to anything else, much to his good, devout family’s dismay. Soon as he was old enough (truly, only by the most _ liberal _ of estimates) he hopped on a merchant ship off the Manhattan harbor, a ticket with the second half of that mistaken monicker smudged off in his hand and a too-big-around-the-shoulders coat on his back. The shortened name fit him about as well as a noose fits a hanged man, but it was unisex enough, he supposed, and easy enough to remember. He couldn’t really be bothered to come up with a new one, anyway. 

When possible, he avoided giving his name out. For most of his life he was “greenhand” or “schoolmaster,” he was “sailor” or “ma’a—sir?” or occasionally “god _ dammit _!” When at all he did share his name, it fell from him uncomfortably, always left him feeling like he’d tripped and stumbled just before saying it. It stuck out in odd places, made people uneasy, wary, unsettled. 

He doesn’t, for the most part, mind. There weren’t many things he liked about himself to start with; he didn’t see why his name had to be one of them. 

When he meets Queequeg, he gives his name as almost an afterthought, finds himself wishing he didn’t have to. They spill their stories out to one another in those early days of knowing each other and Ishmael confesses, almost apologetically, just how _ wrong _ the name feels to him.

He can tell Queequeg is curious, but thankfully, he doesn’t press. In the subsequent weeks, months, years, he’s endlessly thankful at Queequeg’s careful, gracious avoidance of his name, even as they grow to know and love each other more.

It’s not until much later that he really tells him. It is late and they are barely awake, warm and wrapped against each other, somewhere below on the ship and away from prying eyes. He can feel Queequeg dozing off next to him, breathing slow and steady, head tucked against his shoulder. Normally, he would follow suit, but for the moment, he is too troubled to sleep. 

Of course, his Queequeg has always had a knack for sensing when something is amiss, and it doesn’t take long for him to stir awake against him. Queequeg’s eyes open and he shifts to look at him, reaches up and tucks a stray hair behind his ear. For a moment he’s distracted from what’s troubling him, but then Queequeg asks him what’s wrong and the moment’s gone. He gives what he hopes is a nonchalant shrug, though he knows it’s only a matter of time before Queequeg coaxes it out of him. Queequeg shifts again, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth that leaves his heart thudding against the walls of his throat.

He shrugs again, less convincingly, soaking up Queequeg’s warmth a little longer. He rests his forehead against Queequeg’s, their noses brushing. Queequeg asks again, more firmly this time, “what’s wrong?” 

“Just—my name.” He waits, gauging Queequeg’s reaction. Queequeg nods at him to continue and he gives yet another shrug. “It hasn’t ever felt like mine.” Queequeg studies him curiously and he melts a little more under his gaze, before he breathes a sigh and continues. “It doesn’t _ belong _ to me. Like when God created me He swapped the label out with someone else’s and didn’t bother to amend it. And here I am.” 

It feels silly talking about this, complaining about it; it feels trivial and the slightest bit embarrassing, but Queequeg listens without judgment. He considers for a moment.

“Maybe we can find new one for you,” Queequeg says. “I can help.”

He smiles lightly. “You don’t have to.”

“No, I want to. We’ll figure it out.” Queequeg leans in to kiss him, properly this time, and for once he thinks he believes him. 

In a way, Queequeg came through on his promise. 

When the _ Pequod _ sinks and our lonely survivor is picked up by the long-suffering _ Rachel _, his name is at first the farthest thing from his mind. After certain of his well-being, Captain Gardiner asks for it, and he just shakes his head, mute and bleary-eyed, still gripping one edge of Queequeg’s coffin. The captain purses his lips at his reticence, but doesn’t push the subject, and leaves his rescue alone in his cabin. 

For the next few days he eats and sleeps little, speaks less. He traces over the pattern of Queequeg’s tattoos on the coffin with an idle finger, remembering another castaway, remembering what that poor child had said about drowning and losing himself, and he thinks he now understands what Pip meant. Whoever he might have been before this is dead now. 

The coffin, he notes, is strangely fitting. 

After a week on the ship the captain approaches him again, gives him a rough, weary book and a rougher, wearier expression. 

“Perhaps this can bring you some solace.” 

Gardiner leaves the book with him. He flips it open (the title has long been faded from the leather cover, but he thinks he has an inkling of what it is anyway), thumbs his way through its familiar verses. It’s a tiny little book, really, meant to be traveled with, though it feels heavy in his hands. He holds the Bible gingerly with that tight-lipped guilt of someone who has skipped out on church for years and forgotten which parts you’re supposed to stand up for, doesn’t quite know what to make of it. 

He’s not sure what compels him to read it—in theory, he was a good Presbyterian, a pious and loyal follower of Christ. In practice, though, he made a pretty lousy one as far as virtuosity went. But he stumbles his way through the text all the same, hoping to find some semblance of—well, he’s not quite sure what he’s hoping to find. He finds if nothing else a much-needed distraction in the weathered pages.

Eventually, he finds himself at the story of one Ishmael, Abraham’s unwanted. The unchosen one, the bastard son. Orphaned. Left to wander, left to die, but miraculously saved. It’s the middle of the night and he’s sitting, legs scrunched up to his chest, with his back against Queequeg’s coffin, light rain pattering on the deck covering above him. Something in him _ clicks _ when he reads it, though at the moment he doesn’t recognize it. It isn’t until the crew of the _ Rachel _ starts simply referring to him as “orphan” that the realization slides into place. 

Ishmael tests out the name to himself. Sounds it out in the dark, whispers it against the rocking of the ship. He imagines Queequeg next to him, sitting against the coffin with an arm around his shoulder, saying the name out loud with him in that low deep voice of his. 

He can almost hear it. 

The name fits him well. He feels the noose round his neck give a tug and wonders if perhaps this whole time, it hasn’t been a noose at all, but a different kind of line entirely.

The whaleship shifts beneath him, as if the sea herself is nodding in agreement. 

The next day he finds Captain Gardiner in his cabin. He has spoken few words since being dragged half-dead onto the ship, and so imagines his visit comes at some surprise. He figures, though, he at least owes his rescuer some answers. Gardiner invites him in, gestures for him to sit, observes him with that sad scrutiny he was by now used to seeing. 

“Alright, then. What happened to you?”

Ishmael starts and stops several times, searching for his footing.

The captain purses his lips, scratches his chin, folds his hands in front of him. 

“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning.”

So he does. 

_ “Call me Ishmael.” _


End file.
